


It Was Always You

by ANocturnalCow212



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff, Canon Compliant, Daenerys Targaryen is in this, F/M, Jon and Sansa unpack what his true identity means, Jonsa Reunion 2.0, Parentage Reveal, Season 8
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-29 04:20:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16736992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ANocturnalCow212/pseuds/ANocturnalCow212
Summary: Jon has a locket made for Sansa while at Dragonstone, but he has trouble finding the right time to give it to her as the North prepares to fight the Night King and Bran reveals the true identity of his parents.





	It Was Always You

Robert Baratheon’s bastard, the blacksmith smuggled from King’s Landing, was at the makeshift forge Jon had ordered to be built at Dragonstone, inspecting the fresh batch of dragonglass the Dothraki wheeled in. Finding it a waste of talent to have him mining with the rest of the men, Jon had set him to work on finding the fastest way to craft the most lethal weapons from the black stone. The lad was giving a Dothrak an earful for blocking his workspace with their wheelbarrows when Jon arrived. Ser Davos was not far behind.

“Your Grace, maybe you can tell ’em!” Gendry threw his hands up. “Will you have a look at this place? Worse than the slums of Fleabottom, this is. The realm’ll be overtaken by the undead if they go on like this.”

“Ser Davos,” Jon said over his shoulder, motioning at the cluttered forge. “Could you…?”

“Aye, your grace.”

Davos took the Dothrak aside. Taking advantage of his momentary distraction, Jon wove through the racks of weapons and heaps of firewood and dragonglass to get to Gendry.

“Waters,” he said, his voice low, “would you happen to know what a wolf looks like?”

A boy’s raucous laughter ripped through Gendry as he wiped the soot from his face. “Think I’ve gone soft in the head, do you, Your Grace? I spent a whole year wanderin’ the Riverlands, and only see that sigil of yours every day.”

Fists clenched, Jon bounced on the balls of his feet. _Not so loud, you fool! Davos will hear._ “No, no, of course you’re not soft in the head. Why would I…Look, I need you to make something for me.”

He opened his palm out to Gendry, revealing a disc-shaped piece of dragonglass roughly the size of a gold dragon. Jagged and skewed along the rim, its faces were smooth and flat. “Can you fashion a locket out of this? With the Stark sigil engraved on it?”

Nodding, Gendry picked the stone out of his palm and rubbed a thumb over it. The corner of his mouth turned up in an almost wistful smile. “For your lady back home?”

“What?” Jon jerked his head back. Heat shot up his neck and pooled at his ears. “No. No. It’s for the Lady of Winterfell. My sister.”

“Lady Sansa, isn’t it?”

“Aye,” Jon replied, the air searing his lungs as he breathed deep.

“She’s a great beauty, isn’t she? Arry—I mean, Arya—I mean the younger Lady Stark said she was. She always thought I wasn’t listening, but I…” He flicked the dragonglass against his other palm, a far off look in his eyes. Then, with a click of his tongue, he was back and directing Jon’s attention to the stone again. “I’ll see what I can do. Don’t know if it’ll be pretty enough for a proper lady, but I’ll give it a try.”

“Thank you,” Jon smiled. He liked Gendry. Sometimes being around him felt like he was back at the Wall with Sam, or exchanging dirty japes in Winterfell’s Great Hall with Robb. He wasn’t Lord Commander or King of the North to them. He was just another lad. And they were his friends. Friends. _Aye, I’ve missed having those._  

Patting Gendry on the shoulder, he turned around to find Davos’ keen gaze on him. He knew the older man meant well, but Jon found his watchfulness unsettling at times. He was a good study, Ser Davos Seaworth. It was what made his counsel invaluable. But there were things—thoughts—Jon would have preferred he never got the opportunity to riddle out.

He was about to inquire if he’d made any progress with the Dothraki when Gendry called after him.

“You think she’d like one too?”

Blinking in confusion as he wheeled around, Jon asked, “Who?”

“The younger Lady Stark.” Gendry’s face may have been smudged with soot, but there was no mistaking the blush coloring his cheeks. “You think she’d care for such a thing?”

“Uh.” Jon cleared his throat, looking from here to there. “She might.” After some thought, he added, “Though, if she’s the same girl I remember, I reckon she’d much prefer a blade.”

That far-off look returned to Gendry’s eyes, this time accompanied by an amused grin. “Aye, she would. I’ll make her one of those, then.”

***

Jon’s breath hitched at the sight of Winterfell’s great outer wall and the roofs of the castle’s high towers beyond it. The burden of what he brought with him—foreigners intent on subjugating his people, laying claim to northern lands, and fire-breathing dragons that only answered to one—bore down on him. It wasn’t going to be a warm homecoming. They would all hate him, if not relieve him of his title altogether.

The black locket tucked away in his furs was the only sliver of light spurring him forward. She would be angry with him, of that he was certain, but one smile from her—that too for a gift he’d given her—would’ve been enough to last him through the Long Night. To give him the strength to live as a bastard in exile if need be.  

He leapt off his horse as soon as he’d ridden through the East Gate, too impatient to wait for the rest of the detachment to file in and assemble as decorum demanded. She was waiting for him at the very front of the welcoming party, the top of her hair wound in a braided bun and the bottom cascading over her furs like shimmering liquid fire. Upon locking eyes with him, her lips pulled up in a broad smile that touched her eyes.

Jon didn’t feel his legs move. All he knew was that her arms were opened out to him, and in a heartbeat, he was engulfed in her warm, lemon and lavender scented embrace. Burying his nose in her hair, breathing her in, he basked in the vitality she exuded.

“Thank gods you’re well,” he whispered into her hair, his voice breaking from weeks of pent up worry. He’d left her alone, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could have done if something had happened to her.

She smiled into the nape of his neck, the accompanying sigh awakening feeling in his frozen limbs. His arms tightened around her. He never wished to let go of her again. _Just a moment longer and I’ll give her the locket._

They weren’t given a moment longer, however. The whinnies of entering horses pierced through their cocoon and Sansa drew away, the tenderness in her tired eyes now replaced by the unreadable steeliness of the Lady of Winterfell.

“House the Dothraki as far from the women and children as possible,” he hastily whispered in her ear. “Order the guards to remain vigilant but seem amiable.”

Sansa tipped her head in understanding, then looked over his shoulder and let out a weary sigh.

“It was the only way,” Jon said, touching her arm ever so shyly despite having clung to her only moments ago. “Believe me.” The words came out more of a question than a request.

“I do,” Sansa said softly, creases of worry appearing, then disappearing on her forehead. “We’ll speak later.”

Difficult as it was to let her go, Jon found comfort in the familiar faces around him. Ghost padded to his side and nuzzled against his palm. There was Sam and Gilly with wee Sam. Arya was a grown woman now with Needle strapped at her waist. The rebellious glint in her dark eyes had matured into a shrewd gaze. He felt sorry for whoever found himself under its scrutiny. Bran, in his wheelchair, was the most changed. Gone was the good humored lad eager to please his elders. In his place sat a man who appeared far older than his years. A man who didn’t so much look at Jon as he looked through him.

He didn’t return Jon’s hug. Nor did he offer any pleasantries.

“There is something you must know, Jon. It stands to change everything.” Glancing past Jon, at Sansa as she greeted Daenerys and Tyrion, he added, “We must speak at once.”

Sucking in a deep breath, Jon clenched his fists and nodded. Bran had been right about the Others heading to Eastwatch. Jon had no desire to find out how dire things were about to become—the Night King had a dragon now, after all—but if they were going to survive the Long Night, he needed to know.

“We’ve had a long ride,” he said. “I’ll call for a council meeting as soon as everyone’s washed and eaten.”

“There’s no need for the council to be there,” Bran said, his flat tone giving away nothing. “Just you.”

“All right. As soon as Sansa’s seen to food and living arrangements—”

“This doesn’t concern her. You are the one we must speak to. Alone”

“We?”

Sam came into Jon’s line of vision. “It’s best you know as soon as possible, Jon.”

Jon looked from Bran’s vacant face to Sam’s almost pitying one, and bristled. Whatever they wished to tell him, he knew he wasn’t going to like it.

Looking over his shoulder, he sought her out. Sansa. She was making polite conversation with Tyrion. The imp who’d been her husband. Nostrils flaring, Jon clenched his eyes shut.

“Come on, then,” he said to Bran and Sam. “Best get this over with.”

 

***

Jon sat stock-still. His mouth was slack. The figures of his brother by oath, and brother by blood— _but he’s not your brother, is he?_ —were little but blurred shadows floating before him.

Lord Eddard Stark wasn’t his father.

He wasn’t a Stark.

His mother was Lyanna Stark, and his father, Rhaegar Targaryen.

He was Rhaegar Targaryen’s legitimate son.

The rightful heir to the Iron Throne.

His dominant hand reached out for something. For an anchor. For her. But she was elsewhere, waiting upon Daenerys Targaryen.

His aunt.

Bile burned his throat. _What have I done?_

His hand still grasped for Sansa. _What have I done?_ If the truth got out, not only would he be ousted from his seat in the north, Daenerys would most certainly try to secure her claim by raining fire on his home and his family. On Sansa.

Swallowing the bile and agonized scream that threatened to undo him, Jon buried his face in his hands. Fingers still covering his mouth, he managed to say in a stilted voice, “Nobody else needs to know.”

“But Jon,” Sam retorted, “we’ve received ravens. Daenerys is not a suitable ruler.”

“I don’t give a damn about who sits on the bloody Iron Throne!” Jon raised his voice, rising to his feet. “The north is my home, and I won’t jeopardize the safety of my family or my people. The Night King has one of Daenerys’ dragons. That is the _only_ thing we should be concerning ourselves with, do you understand?”

Sam fidgeted in his seat while Bran remained infuriatingly stoic, seeing everything and nothing, all at once.

Jon pivoted towards the door. “And if I learn you’ve spoken of this to anyone else, Gods help me, I’ll behead you myself.”

He slammed the door shut behind him and stalked off to the ramparts. The sharp lashes of the northern winds numbed him to the pain of being lied to. To the betrayal. To the crash that followed a plunge into the depths of the Seven Hells. How could he be the son of a man so heartless as to leave his lawful wife for another? How could his mother be party to something so reckless? How could his dutiful father—no uncle—inflict so much pain on the woman he loved? That too on his account!

He didn’t ask for this. He didn’t want for this.

He paced the length of the ramparts as grey sunlight gave way to darkening shades of blue. Torches and braziers lit up in the grounds below, and movement and sound drained from the busy courtyards as the hour of the evening meal drew nearer.

Two figures loitering by the smithy caught Jon’s attention. He immediately recognized the broader, taller one wielding a great warhammer as Gendry. It wasn’t until there was a flash and spinning blur of steel that he realized the shorter figure was Arya. She was balancing Needle’s blade on her left index finger, and an unfamiliar blade on her right. Their exchange was too quiet for Jon to hear, but from Arya’s approving nod, and the way Gendry ducked his head and bashfully scratched at it, he gathered the lad had given the lady his gift to encouraging results.

He had never been more jealous of another man before. Another bastard who was free to live out his life as a bastard. Without the fear of mutiny. Without the burden of a throne he did not want. Without the knowledge that he’d lain with his aunt. Without the possibility he might lose the trust of those he cared for the most.

The irony of his turmoil—of wishing he was _just_ a bastard—was not lost on him.

“Jon?” A gentle, feminine voice startled him out of his skin. She appeared beside him, her radiance making him weak at the knees, even under the cloak of darkness. “What are you doing hiding up here?”

“My presence is hardly something to be missed over the span of a single meal. I was never the best company.”

“On the contrary,” Sansa said, her tone teasing, “the Mother of Dragons and Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea has been most concerned about your whereabouts.”

Nostrils flaring, Jon trained his glower at the snow-covered lands beyond the eastern wall.

“I told her you’d gone to the Godswood to offer your paryers,” Sansa continued. “That northerners take their time communing with their gods. But if you make her wait any longer, I fear she might go looking for you.”  

Jon had grown rigid to the point of snapping in two. He couldn’t face Daenerys. Nor could he face his own bannermen. He had told his share of lies in both his lifetimes, but this was too big. If he faced them now, he was certain he’d break.

His silence was louder than the yawning winter winds between them.

“Jon,” Sansa finally squeaked. Letting out a stuttered breath to regain her composure, she tightened her furs about her shoulders. “You did what you had to do.”

Eyebrows shooting up, Jon whipped his head in her direction. “What?”

Sansa struggled to find the right words. She could barely meet his eyes. _Gods, what do you know?_

“I know the game,” she said, quietly. Miserably. “Sometimes doing what’s right does not mean doing what’s honorable. You did what you had to do. I’m not angry with you.”

He said nothing.

“Making yourself scarce won’t stop everyone from finding out.” She drew closer, bit her bottom lip and focused her attention on her entwined fingers. “Daenerys has made no secret that you and she have...It’s a shrewd play at gaining the upper hand. You can’t afford to be cowed by it.”

Eyes widening in horror, Jon’s head began to spin. Daenerys was by no means a coy woman, but surely she wouldn’t have been so blunt. Surely she wouldn’t have spoken the exact words to Sansa.

She raised her gaze to his, and waited. Pleaded for him to say something. Anything. But what was there to say?

“The bannermen need their king, Jon. They need to be reminded you have their best interests at heart.”

Unable to bear the despair chipping away at her resolve, Jon turned his back to her with a gruff snort.

“They need you to be the figurehead they think they deserve.” When his silence protracted, she continued, “Jon, you were the one who said we must trust each other. If something is weighing on your mind, you have to—”

“Will the northern houses still fight for me when they learn I’m not Eddard Stark’s son?”

With a stern set to his mouth, he turned to face her once more. He regretted the harshness imbued in his words as soon as he registered her pallid face.

“I-I don’t understand.”

“I’m not. I never was. And do you know who my real father was? Rhaegar Targaryen. And my mother was—”

“Lyanna.”

“Aye.” He couldn’t shake the menace from his voice. “Of course, it wasn’t enough for them to have a child out of wedlock, no. Rhaegar annulled his first marriage and married my mother before I was born.”

“But—” The wheels turned in Sansa’s head. She shook her head in horror. “But that means that you’re—”

“Aye,” he said. “Aye, it means exactly that. Now you tell me how in Seven Hells I’m supposed to face a hall full northerners, and another Targaryen with two dragons and a fucking Dothraki horde at her call.”

Her mind still at work, Sansa’s chest heaved from a bracing breath. “Who else knows?”

“Bran. Sam.”

Trembling with unease, she nodded. Then fixing her blue gaze on Jon, she said, “All right. So long as it’s only them, we’re safe.”

Without warning, she flung her arms around his neck and pulled him to her in a desperate, strangely assuring hug. He returned the embrace, holding her to him by the waist, nuzzling into her collar’s furs in the hope her touch might quell the storm raging inside him. When she pulled her head away, he ensured the rest of her was still pressed against him with a firm hand.

Her ungloved knuckles stroked up his cheeks to his ears. “I trust you, Jon. Do you understand? No matter the circumstances, you are a Stark to me, and I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

Relinquishing her waist to cup her face, Jon admired how truly beautiful she was. This woman who had haunted his dreams every night while he was away, warming another’s bed. This woman who he couldn’t fathom living without. This woman who he trusted with his life and who trusted him in return.

He caught his gaze dipping to her lips. Chastising himself, he planted a gentle, lingering kiss on her brow, then bowed his head to rest his forehead against hers. Their mingling breaths, hot against cold, relief against yearning, made him forget where they were. _Who_ they were.

“Go,” he said reluctantly. “It won’t do for the Lady of Winterfell to leave her guests unattended.”

Nodding against his face, brushing the tip of her nose against the bridge of his, she unclasped herself from him. At the threshold of the stairs, she looked back at him. Smiling, Jon raised a hand in goodbye out of habit.

The fiery crown of her head had disappeared beneath the stairs when he remembered her locket was still nestled in his cloak, just over his heart.

***

Sleep did not come to him that night. Following a quick supper, he had called on Daenerys to see if the rooms were to her liking. They were not, he knew, but she was courteous enough not to say as much.

“You never told me your sister was such a beauty,” she’d said, slipping a hand under his cloak, stroking up and down his chest. “We must find her a worthy suitor when we’re through with all this.”

Leaning away with a clamped jaw, Jon stilled her hands. No suitor would ever be worthy of Sansa. “Who she marries is her concern. Our only concern now is the coming storm.”

She had ignored his retreat, and pressed herself against him. “I missed you tonight. Next time you go to offer your prayers, take me with you.”

He’d barely escaped her advances this time without offending her. But knowing her as he did, she’d only grow more persistent if things continued as they were.

Anger flared in him as he lay abed. He was no stranger to seduction borne from necessity, but this! Not only was he angry at his birth parents for ever coming together, he was unspeakably angry at the man he’d called father all his life. There was no telling if his actions would have been any different if Lord Stark had told him the truth, but he would have tried harder for another solution if he’d known.

Throwing aside his bed furs, he pulled on his boots, wrapped himself in his cloak and headed for the crypts. He did not have the luxury of confronting his father in person, but perhaps confronting his statue would rid him, if but a little, of his turmoil.

Navigating through the cold, dark and winding passages, he was surprised to be greeted by a dim but golden glow when he neared the chamber where his father—no uncle—and Rickon had been laid to rest. Fresh candles flickered at the base of their statues. An arm’s length away from them, Sansa was lighting more candles at the base of Lyanna’s statue.

She jumped on hearing Jon enter. Then holding a candle up to his face, she smiled. “I couldn’t sleep either.”

Her hair was in a loose braid, strands spilling out and disheveled from tossing and turning in bed. She brushed it away from her face as she bent down to light the last candle. Jon swallowed at the overbearing urge to tuck the strand behind her ear and run his fingers down the nape of her neck.   

“We were so much alike,” she said, straightening to look upon Lyanna’s face. “I didn’t even know.”

Jon looked upon the stone face. At its empty eyes. Were they kind as he had always imagined? “Everyone says Arya took after her.”

“I suppose.” Sansa came to stand beside him, her shoulders brushing his. Her blue eyes glistened in the candlelight, as though a mummer had sung her a song of unrequited love. “But we both thought our lives a song. One where a prince with golden hair would name us his queen. And we both paid for it so dearly.”

Jon’s chest lurched at the tremor in her voice. At the tears she tried to blink away.

“Father had tried to warn me, but I…I was just a stupid girl.”

“Sansa…”

“I was,” she insisted. “I was and he should’ve seen me for the stupid girl I was. If he’d been more forthright, maybe everything that happened since wouldn’t have—”

“Sansa”—he brushed a finger against her knuckle, too shy to take her hand—“there’s no use dwelling on what’s done.”

Lowering her gaze, spilling a tear or two, she let out a sorrowful chuckle. “Isn’t that why you’re here as well?”

Jon’s answering laugh echoed hers. Anger swelled in his chest again as he looked from his uncle to his mother. “It’s one thing to keep the truth from the realm, but how could he keep it from me? And from Lady Catelyn?” His voice grew louder. Hoarser. “And what heartless woman would do what my mother did to your family? To my father’s wife and children?”

“Jon.” Sansa’s hand was on his arm. “She was heartbroken and alone and frightened.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It should matter,” she said firmly. “I went to see Bran after you told me. She was fighting for her life in the birthing bed when father found her. You were her one hope. Her one true love. Her last thoughts were of you, and it was because of you that she made father promise.”

She squeezed his arm, even tugged on it, to get him to understand. But he kept glowering up at the statues.

“Would you not have done the same for me?” she asked.

The image of Sansa lying in a blood-stained bed, begging him to fulfill her last wish constricted his throat. He wrung his arm free of her grasp and stumbled away from her, horrified she would even say such a thing. “I would _never_ let any harm come to you.”

“Even the King of the North can’t stop casualties of the birthing bed.” The corner of her mouth pulled up in a smirk.

“I don’t care for such talk from you.”

Sighing, Sansa looped her arm around his and rested her head against his shoulder. “Forgive them, Jon. For what it’s worth, I think they’d be proud of us. Father and Lyanna. They’d think the heartache and sacrifice worth it.”

He set his cheek against her soft hair and drew a long, steadying breath. “Truly?”

“I think so.”

Closing his eyes to the empty gazes of his mother’s and uncle’s likenesses, Jon tried to commit the feel of Sansa resting against him to memory. In that moment, he didn’t care what the dead thought of him. All he cared for was that he had her.

That he loved her.

That he only wished for her happiness.

He remembered it then—the dragonglass locket. It would have made her happy. But dolt that he was, he had left it on his bedside table.

***

There was hardly any time to dwell on the truth of his lineage. The morning after they arrived at Winterfell, Bran had a vision of the Night King crossing the Wall atop Viserion. Preparations to ride north to meet him in battle were set in motion immediately. Council meetings and larger assemblies stretched into the wee hours of the night. With only a scant few hours to rest, Daenerys’s attempts to coax Jon into her bed ceased.

Bran had likely only told him the truth to put an end to his intimate relations with her. As it was unlikely he was going to make it out of this ordeal alive, let alone make a play for the Iron Throne, Jon wanted to believe the identity of his parents would have no further consequences.

They were due to ride north within five short days of their return to Winterfell. Before dawn on the day of their departure, Jon found Sansa with Maester Wolkan at the storehouse by the stables, taking stock of what weapons, oats, wheat, rye flour, and hay could be spared for the men riding out.

“Sansa,” Jon wearily called across the storehouse, “I thought you said you’d get a good night’s sleep.”

Sansa spoke to Maester Wolkan. “Can you see to it that those bushels go to the wheelhouse heading out?” Dusting off her hands, she stepped over a number of sacks and ledgers to get to Jon. “You’d best hope there’s enough game out there to hunt. I fear what I’m giving you won’t last that many men very long.”

“You’ve done all you can.” Peering over her shoulder to make sure Maester Wolkan was occupied, he pulled her out of the storehouse. “Come with me.”

“Jon, really I must—”

“I promise it won’t be long. Come on.”

He led her out to a narrow alleyway between two of the storehouses. The past four days had been so frenzied they’d barely had a moment alone together since they met in the crypts.

“This is for you,” he said, pulling out the locket from his furs. Unable to find a necklace of gold or silver, he’d just threaded a strip of leather through it.

Brows knitted, her thumb traced the direwolf engraved on the glossy black stone. “But this is dragonglass,” she accused.

“Well, short of throwing it at the walkers, I don’t think it would’ve been much use.” He wished she’d look up at him. “Do you like it?”

“I—Jon, I can’t. It’s too pretty.”

Jon’s brows drew together. His heart felt as if it had dropped to the pit of his stomach.

“No, I mean…you should have saved it for…for her. For y-your lady.”

“I’m giving it to her.”

Eyes widening in disbelief, she averted her gaze. “You’re mocking me.”

“No. Never.” He tilted her head up by the chin. “It’s you. It was always you.”

Sansa’s breath hitched.

“Say you’ll wear it. Please?”

Still catching her breath, she nodded. Jon slowly turned her around. He let the tips of his fingers caress the base of her hairline as he swept her tresses over one shoulder.

“It suits you,” he said, taking a step back to admire Gendry’s handiwork resting over her dress’ neckline. When he raised his gaze, he found her staring at him, distraught, her lips parted. Whatever it was she wished to say, she did not have the words to say them. Perhaps it was for the best. Jon would not have survived being reprimanded for his affections.

“I should see to the horses,” he gulped, backing away to the mouth of the alley. “I’ll meet you at the gate.”

“Wait!”

She launched herself at him. Clasping his chin to draw him closer, she pressed her lips to his. Their noses bumped, and they didn’t quite know what to do with their hands. Jon had never known such a glorious rush of exhilaration.

“Promise me,” she said in between hasty and ardent kisses. “Promise me, Jon.” She framed his face in her hands. “No heroics. Just promise me you’ll come back to me.”

“Sansa—” Jon moaned against her.

“No, promise me.”

Drawing out the kiss that followed, then pecking at her softly, Jon pulled away. “You know I can’t do that.”

His thumb stroked her cheek. _If only I could wipe the sorrow from her eyes._

“I don’t care.” She leaned in for more, but he stilled her with a firm squeeze to her arms.

“I have to go,” he said, locking eyes with her, the words barely audible.

She fell limp against his chest. “I know.”

Winding his arms around her, he held her tight until the bustle beyond the alleyway became too loud to ignore. Caressing the curve of her head, he pressed a kiss to her forehead in a silent promise. “I’ll see you at the gate.”

He marched out into the open, his shoulders squared and fists clenched. As he fought the urge to look back, he realized why Bran had told him the truth. If he survived the fight against the Night King, he would have no choice but to reveal himself a Targaryen.

It was the only way he could make Sansa Stark his lady.


End file.
